Nightmare
by StoryGirl.98
Summary: Sherlock has a bad dream, about the one thought that haunts him: What if he came back too late? And upon waking up, John comforts him. Oneshot, Post-Reichenbach. Warnings: Suicide.


With a trembling hand, John Watson traced the handle of his gun.

The same gun that he had shot the cabbie with to save Sherlock's life, the same gun he had been toting around ever since returning from the army. He had only used when he needed to, and he really felt like he needed to now.

He picked the gun up, and gripped it tightly, slowly moving it towards his temple.

John had told himself he wasn't going to do this, long ago. Back when he had returned to London, and felt like there was nothing left, he told himself he would wait for something to live for. That thing came in the form of Sherlock Holmes.

And, just a short year and a half later, it had left.

Like a light blowing out, Sherlock was gone in an instant. John hated himself after that, he was once at that low point, he should have seen the signs. He should have known Sherlock needed help, even if the man wouldn't have admitted it. He should have stayed, maybe if he had looked a little deeper he would have found that Sherlock was in fact human, and did in fact need help.

Like he needed help now.

But no one would help.

And honestly, if they could, he wouldn't accept their help. It was all beyond that now.

Just as his finger was about to squeeze the trigger, someone burst through the door.

Sherlock rushed in, his breathing heavy. Somehow, he knew something was wrong back in the life he left behind. He had rushed all the way back to 221B, and there he was, facing his best friend.

He slowly walked into the room, taking note of the gun pressed to John's head, and trying not to make any bold movements.

Surprisingly, _very _surprisingly, John didn't seemed shocked by seeing his dead best friend walk into the room.

"John," Sherlock began, carefully edging towards his friend, "Put the gun down. I'm back, things are fine." He spoke with caution, like he was handling a hostage situation.

"H-how do I know your n-not a hallucination, like the others?" John stuttered out, his hand holding the gun trembling even more.

Sherlock momentarily paused. Hallucinations? Just what scars had his death left? Deciding to mull over that later, he tried to figure out the solution to this problem.

"I'm real, John. I'm real and I'm not dead and I'm _here,_ John. Please, put the gun down," Sherlock said, desperation beginning to show in his voice.

"I-I can't, Sherlock. I need to do this."

"No you don't!"

"Yes. You left me alone. You should have came earlier, Sherlock."

John cast a hateful glare at his former best friend, and his grip on the gun tightened. Sherlock knew what was going to happen and he went to move forward to stop John, but he felt frozen to the spot.

"Goodbye, Sherlock," John whispered quietly, a small, sad, twisted smile on his face.

There was a loud bang, a scream from somewhere, and John Watson was no more.

–

Sherlock woke with a start.

He found himself on the sofa in 221B, in a sitting position, a blanket draped over his shoulders.

Remembering the very vivid nightmare, he immediately started to panic.

"John!" He shouted out, and a few seconds later John stumbled out, still in his pajamas and looking very tired.

"What is it now? It's three in the morning," He said with a yawn.

Upon seeing him, Sherlock calmed down a remembered that everything was fine. He had returned a few months ago, John had been a little mad at first, but they soon had settled back into life. Sherlock cleared his name, and started taking cases again. Everything was fine, and John was not dead.

"S-sorry, it was nothing," Sherlock mumbled, slightly embarrassed that he freaked out.

"No, it wasn't," John replied. Sherlock didn't panic over nothing. He sat next to him on the sofa.

"What was it? This isn't some play to get me to do something is it?"

Sherlock clenched his teeth and shook his head.

"It's nothing, now leave me alone."

"It wasn't nothing."

There was silence for a few moments, neither person breaking the silence, and neither moving. John was waiting for Sherlock to cave in, and Sherlock was waiting for John to leave.

"It was a nightmare okay!"Sherlock suddenly exclaimed, not being able to handle the look John was giving him.

"A nightmare? That's it?"

Sherlock stood and a hurt look crossed his face as he headed to the kitchen.

"It was a very bad nightmare," he said in his defense.

"What was it about, then?" John asked, following him into the kitchen, "Any scary monsters or bad guys?" he continued teasingly.

"Just one," Sherlock replied quietly, so low John barely heard it.

"What or who?" John was beginning to be very interested in what might of scared Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock paused a moment, and faked interest in one of his experiments, but knew he had to tell John eventually.

"Me."

"You?"

Sherlock nodded.

"You were the villain in your own dream?"

Another nod.

"How does that work?"

"I came too late."

"For what?"

Sherlock brushed past John and walked into the living room, not wanting to face him for this.

"It was just so real looking, and I thought it was real, and I honestly didn't know it was a dream. You hated me, and I came back too late, and then you wanted me to feel pain too, and then..."

Sherlock turned back to face John, who was looking at him intently. He hung his head, and said it as regretful as if it had been true.

"You killed yourself, John. A bullet to the head, right in front of my face."

John just stared. He never saw Sherlock Holmes, _the _Sherlock Holmes, as scared and hurt as he was then. He'd seen the man in almost any dangerous situation imaginable, and yet, there he was, scared only by the thought of his flatmate killing himself.

"Sherlock, listen," John began, "I'm not going to kill myself. I don't hate you. Things are fine, we established that months ago, right?"

"I know, but I can't stop thinking, what if I hadn't came when I did? Would you have... you know."

John opened his mouth to reassure his friend that he was fine now, but before he could do anything Sherlock had moved across the room and trapped him in a tight hug. So tight that John could barely breathe, but he could tell Sherlock needed it, and he returned the embrace. Sherlock quickly backed up, and he suddenly found the floor very interesting.

"Sorry, I just sort of-" he stammered out. John knew his flatmate wasn't that well with emotions, and interrupted him.

"It's okay."

Sherlock started to walk to his bedroom, and with a yawn, suddenly felt tired.

"Goodnight, John," he called over his shoulder.

"Night, Sherlock."

John moved to go to his bedroom but stopped.

"Don't hesitate to call me if there's any more bad dreams."

Sherlock looked back at him, and smiled.

"I won't."


End file.
